


Morrocan Sun, English Frost

by Ariel_Tempest



Series: Lord Of Brancaster [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, Spoilers, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 04:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: After losing his valet to malaria, Peter Pelham barely makes it back to England in time for his cousin's wedding. He is, however, determined that nothing should spoil the event: not his badly done tie, his too long hair, or Bertie's mother.Surely life can only get better from here, right?





	1. Alighting

I miss the sun already.

Of all the seasons I try to avoid England, winter is foremost. There was a time when I loved winter. The fog shrouded everything in mystery, the frost made it shimmer, and the snow was a signal of joy for days to come. Even the bare trees had their beauty, standing against the sky, a sharp contrast of black and silver. Now the leaden clouds are as oppressive as the relations and distant Parliament who all politely smile and wish I didn't exist. My position keeps me somewhat safe from political attack, if only just, but it's hard to feel comfortable here at the best of times. The cold and frost just amplifies the yearning for the sun and relative anonymity of Tangiers.

Fortunately, it is rare for anyone to actually desire my presence in my homeland.

I've hired a car to take me from the train station to Downton Abbey. I can only hope that the clothes I wired to have sent down from Brancaster have arrived before I have. I should have been here days ago, but I had to finish with the final details of poor Adams's death. Then there was a storm that delayed passage from the continent, and now? Now I will have only a few hours to get dressed, meet new relations, and prepare to stand next to Bertie at the altar. 

I won't even have time to meet his bride before the ceremony. I can't think ill of her, of course. She's marrying Bertie. She must, therefore, be an angel. I will allow her to be no less.

Poor Bertie. I wish I had thought to contact him, somehow, to let him know that I am here and will, baring further disaster, arrive in time. He's probably in a state by now. Of course, I'm sure he has a backup best man planned in case I don't make it. I only wish I had a backup valet. In all of the fuss I've not had time to see a barber and my hair is long enough to be unruly. Between that and my unseasonable tan, I'm sure to detract from the wedding party.

We won't even mention my tie, although I'm sure Bertie can fix that himself, in a pinch. 

Perhaps I should deliberately contrive to be late. I can slip in the back just before the doors close, so I can be a part of the festivities without detracting from them with my outlandish appearance. But no, that will not do. Bertie wants me by his side as he weds, so I will be there. After all, he's one of the few members of my family thar I keep close out of friendship rather than animosity.

Fortunately, I doubt any of our family beyond cousin Mirada will be in attendance. While she may be the enemy I keep closest, she is also the most concerned with appearances. If I can trust her to do nothing else, I can at least trust her not to make a fuss at Bertie's wedding. I should head back to Brancaster at first light tomorrow, if possible, to avoid her afterward. But for today I am safe.

I have never been in Yorkshire before, except passing through. I'm sure many of the lower and middle class would be surprised by this, as they assume the entire aristocracy has intimate acquaintance with each other. Mostly, though, we meet in London and there are still enough of the wealthy families left to make it into your third decade of life without having met your entire generation of nobles. Therefore, while I have certainly heard of the Granthams, I have no idea what to expect from Downton Abbey. 

Then, as the car pulls up the drive, I am afforded my first look at the building. It is grand, of course. All such houses are. However, even at that it is a sharp contrast from Brancaster. While I'm certain there is more to it than the immediate view, it is more compact than my own home, less sprawling. There are times when I've been tired or ill and managed to get lost in Brancaster. I suspect getting lost at Downton would take concentrated effort or entirely too much alcohol if you were familiar with the building. 

I find it charming. 

The differences give Downton an immediate comfort that Brancaster lacks, an intimacy. It is a cottage to my home's manor estate, if that is not too absurd a comparison. I can't help but imagine the family who lives here as more than an aloof governing body, concerned with their own income and laying a moral groundwork for the serfs surrounding them. I imagine them going to the village and knowing people, from clergy to bakers. I imagine them taking a real interest in the countryside around them and their tenants. I imagine this place as an actual home, not simply a richly decorated prison one inherits.

Perhaps I'm being overly sentimental because their daughter is marrying dear Bertie, but I can not help thinking them a very good sort of people.

I am out of the car almost before it comes to a complete stop, leaving my luggage for the footmen to sort out in their time. The gravel crunches a staccato rhythm beneath my feet as I hurry across the drive to ring the bell. It is barely three heartbeats before the door opens to reveal a tall, imposing sort of fellow in livery. He is older and has heavy brows which, combined with his nose, give him the look of a very stern raptor. This, then, would be the butler. Whoever it was he was expecting at the door, it apparently wasn't a tanned, long haired man with a terribly done tie, because he does a visible double take and asks, very politely, but with a touch of disapproval, "May I help you?"

"Peter Pelham," I introduce myself with my best apologetic smile. I feel I have to apologize for my timing and appearance somehow, it might as well be with a smile. "Marquess of Hexham. I believe I'm expected."

"Oh, Lord Hexham, of course!" the man replies, the disapproval giving way to quietly polite surprise. He steps immediately out of the way. "Do come in. His lordship and Mr. Pelham are in the library." He waves over a footman, younger and about the same height, but less imposing. "Andrew! See to Lord Hexham's luggage."

The younger man smiles, bows, and vanishes out the door without so much as batting an eye at my appearance. I am grateful.

"This way, Your Lordship." The butler turns toward the room in question. He seems to have recovered from his shock readily enough.

Inside, Downton is every bit as lush as such a building should be, and this is accentuated by the wedding decorations. Still, I can not shake the homey feeling. Perhaps it is the servants bustling about, even this late in the day. Oh, I suppose the wedding makes for unusual circumstances, but it still makes it feel as if the staff are part of the family. Distant cousins perhaps or, in the case of the butler, a stern uncle. My own servants are more comrades in arms or carefully chosen confidants than family, each selected for their ability and willingness to keep secrets from the world. I trust them, and in my absence I am fond of them, but with the exception of my butler and, before his death, Adams, we are not close. 

The library is far from empty, although it is large enough that you could fit several more people and possibly an elephant in before it started getting cramped. Bertie is here, of course, dressed in his best suit and looking politely flustered. Cousin Mirada is seated on a large, plush looking sofa, next to another woman of about the same age who I can only guess is Lady Grantham. In total there are five men and six women in the room, standing or sitting, not including the butler and a tall, somewhat mousy fellow serving tea. 

"Lord Hexham, milord," my guide announces, causing all eyes to turn to me. 

"Peter!" Before anyone else can comment or criticize, Bertie leaves off his conversation with a slightly taller, dark haired gentleman and comes over to clasp my shoulders tightly. "You made it."

"By the grace of God and nothing more, I assure you," I reply, giving him a hug. I'm certain cousin Mirada will object later, but it's how any other two cousins would greet, so why shouldn't I? I am, however, very careful not to muss his suit. "Although nothing but the will of God could have kept me away."

Stepping back, Bertie takes in my appearance. "You must be exhausted from all of that traveling." He frowns, "And what on earth happened to your tie?"

Confronted with my very able cousin who has undoubtedly been tying his own ties since he was old enough to dress himself, I can't help but feel sheepish. "I tried to do it myself, I'm afraid. It's a miracle I didn't strangle myself. Really, I would not wish having one's valet die in the middle of a foreign country on anyone."

Another person might laugh at me. Fortunately Bertie is the soul of kindness and only gives me a sympathetic look. "I got your wire about poor Adams. I believe Carson has asked one of the footmen to serve as valet for you?" He turns and gives a questioning look to the butler.

"I have indeed," Carson replies with a crisp nod of the head which serves as a bow. 

"With that hair a lady's maid might serve better," cousin Mirada observes, eying me critically from her seat. Apparently she has been silent too long.

I suppress a sigh. Yes, my hair is uncomfortably long, but it doesn't yet rival any of the women in the room, and given that one of the younger women is wearing her hair in a very modern bob, that is saying quite a bit.

"Mother," Bertie reprimands her. 

"It will be no problem at all, I'm sure," one of the older gentleman assures, as he crosses to offer me his hand. "Lord Hexham, I'm Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham. Welcome to Downton." He has an easy, pleasant manner about him which fits exactly with my expectations of the family and I can't help but smile as I shake his hand.

"Thank you, Lord Grantham. It is a pleasure to be here."

"Well then, we have about three hours before we need to be at the church," Bertie smiles, checking his watch and gesturing me toward the rest of the group. "That should leave just enough time for introductions before you need to change."

* * *

The reception is held in the hall, being the largest, most open space. It is still so crowded that it brings to mind the market place in Tangiers. There's more room to move, admittedly, and certainly less noise, particularly where the sound of goats is concerned, but it is the closest to the excited bustle as England will likely ever see.

My new relatives circulate among their guests, greeting each one as an old and dear friend.

They are almost exactly as I'd imagined they would be: Lord Grantham, the aging yet capable leader, as comfortable now ruling from an arm chair as a board room; Lady Grantham, with her skin as white as snow, her hair as black as night, and her lips painted something a bit more dignified than the red of blood, an older and wiser Snow White serenely ruling over her kingdom; Lady Violet, the matriarch, the last remaining vestige of the old guard; Mrs. Grey (not Lady Merton, thank you), the matriarch's lieutenant - trusted, but not quite of the same level, even if she's married to a lord; Tom Branson, the handsome, earnest country cousin among country cousins; and Lady Rose, the debutante, rising into her glory in a flurry of smiles and golden curls. 

The Talbots are the only real surprise; Lady Mary, with her pleasant-but-guarded smiles, heir to the dowager, I suspect, and Henry, dashingly handsome, but as grounded and sensible as Bertie. They seem an oddly mismatched pair if ever there was one, and I find myself watching them when I’m not watching Bertie and Edith.

Edith, Lady Edith, nearest and dearest of my new cousins. She is every bit the angel I imagined, standing next to Bertie, hand on his arm and smiling beatifically at everyone who comes past to offer congratulations. Her hair makes a sunlit halo of curls around her face, her dress a glittering robe. Bertie could not have found a lovelier woman if he'd tried, I am sure.

We've yet to actually be introduced.

The entire assembly is eager to congratulate the newlyweds, although in the manner of the English aristocracy they don't do anything so impudent as push forward. They wait patiently, drifting in politely smiling eddies, waiting for the current of people to draw them close enough to step forward and offer a smile and a shake of the hand or kiss on the cheek. 

I am almost there, I can be patient.

There are servants among the guests. Not the servants of Downton, the footmen circulating with trays of food for offer, but other servants, invited as nothing more than wedding guests. I have met both the dowager Countess's butler and lady's maid, and a young woman who apparently worked here before leaving to be secretary before the war. The town doctor is here as well, along with several of the tenants. I can't help but smile as cousin Mirada finds herself talking to one of the farmers. While she might speak to such people in the village or passing on the road, to share her moral wisdom if nothing else, I doubt she's used to meeting them on terms such as this.

With the Crawlys as family, I suspect she will have to get used to such things. I can not pretend to be sad.

The human tide finally washes me within range of Bertie and Edith, allowing me to break out and offer my congratulations. For the second time today, I embrace my cousin. "Edith," he turns, making the official introductions. "This is my cousin Peter."

"Of course." Edith's smile is as warm up close as from a distance. I suspect in a few months Bertie himself will be tanned from the warmth of that smile. There is no formal, distant hand shake. She embraces me as she has every other member of the family and kisses my cheek, and I am more than happy to return the gesture. "Bertie has told me so much about you, I feel like we've already met."

"I wish we had," I reply as we release each other and step back to a respectable distance. "But now there is all the time in the world to get to know one another, and I look forward to the opportunity." It is time for congratulations, and though it's impossible, I try to meet both of their gazes at once. I do a tolerable job, I suppose. "I am truly happy for both of you. No life is perfect, but I am certain that together you will build a life and a love that is as close to perfect as God allows. May the storms of marriage serve only to water your love, so that it grows stronger and more beautiful after they pass, and may you be surrounded only by people who cherish you."

Bertie looks a bit awkward with sentiment, but none-the-less smiles and thanks me, and I can tell that he means it. Edith, on the other hand, looks deeply touched and perhaps a little awestruck. I can't imagine why. Mine can't be the first speech they've received. "Thank you, Peter. That was beautiful."

"Well, if I read that in the paper, I'll at least know what pseudonym he writes under," an older, rather impressed voice to my right says. I turn, somewhat startled. I've been so focused on the newlyweds that I've forgotten the rest of the room entirely. Despite being one of the first people to congratulate her granddaughter, the Dowager has drifted back within ear shot, along with Bertie's mother. 

Cousin Mirada does not seem half so taken with my efforts. "Don't encourage him," she scolds.

Her reprimand earns her one of the haughtiest, most disapproving looks I've seen in my life, as if she were some ill mannered urchin who had just suggested sea bathing in one's skivvies. "I will encourage whomever I please," the Dowager replies, before turning, giving me a nod, and sweeping off into the crowd, as much as someone with a walking stick can sweep. Cousin Mirada looks quite put out and, with a glare in my direction, takes herself off to talk to someone else.

Edith looks deeply amused. "Well, you have Granny's approval."

It's time for me to step aside, to let someone else have their turn, but I can't quite. Not yet. "I know we'd discussed in our letters your coming to live with me at Brancaster," I reply, still looking after the Dowager. "But could I possibly come and live here at Downton instead? Your family seems so much more pleasant than mine, excepting Bertie and a couple of others, of course."

"Oh no," Edith shakes her head, her eyebrows knitting in apology although her smile doesn't fade. "I'm afraid Mary and I would kill each other. But there will certainly be reason to visit."

"That I look forward to," I assure her. Then, with a final bow, I let myself be carried off back into the crowd, leaving them to the next well wisher. 

My next goal is the wine table. With only two footmen, there is no way to deliver wine to everyone who might wish it, so they've set up a table neatly lined with glasses of champagne. While champagne is not my favorite wine, I confess to being quite fond of the bubbles. I am also, after several hours worth of festivities, rather thirsty.

The table is manned, as one would expect, by Carson. He stands watch over everything with that expression like a disapproving hawk which seems to be part of every butler’s repertoire. Carson pulls it off particularly well, thanks to the somewhat large nose and bushy eyebrows that make it seem like he’s scowling, even when he isn’t. He says no word as I approach the table, simply looks up at me from where he’s refilling the glasses, silently asking if I need assistance. 

I smile at him as I help myself to a glass and he gives me a nod in return, those bushy eyebrows raising slightly to make him look a bit less intimidating. As I take my first sip, Lord Grantham also approaches for a glass. “Lord Hexham,” he greets me, beaming like any man whose daughter has just been married. “What do you think of the champagne?”

“As good a vintage as I’ve ever tasted,” I assure him. It is not undo flattery. If the champagne is an example of the man’s wine cellar, then dinner here will never disappoint, for surely there must be a perfect match for every course. I watch Carson fill more glasses and marvel at the amount being put out. I am glad, for the sake of my own wine cellar, that when I eventually break down and get married, my in-laws will be expected to supply the drinks. “It’s hard to believe, really, that the vineyards survived the war.”

Lord Grantham made a general noise of agreement, then added, “There are days it’s hard to believe anything survived, and yet here we are, alive and well.” 

“And thriving.” I look to Bertie and Edith once more and feel that in this moment, anything might be possible. It’s not that I’m unaware of the financial difficulties facing families like mine and Lord Grantham’s, or the number who have completely thrown in the towel all ready. But bad times come and bad times go, for the rich as well as the poor, although to many eyes we might fair better. We’ve weathered change before and, just now, I can not feel that there is anything too terrible lurking in the future. I only see my cousin happily settled, with hopes of being a father. That’s all that matters. I turn a smile to my host and raise my glass. “To the future.”

“To the future.”

I am just about to drink my toast when there’s a peel of laughter from directly behind me and something small, but surprisingly heavy, collides with the back of my legs, jarring me terribly and splashing the contents of my glass into my face and down my front. Just my luck. “Sybbie!” a male voice scolds from behind me, “Be careful!” Meanwhile Lord Grantham and Carson both look shocked and horrified for a moment before the butler hurries forward with a handkerchief to help dry me off.

Mr. Branson steps into my line of sight, carrying his daughter who looks perilously close to crying. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Hexham.”

I am certain that a crying child will do more to dampen the spirits of the festivities than my spilt wine and am therefore eager to avoid it. I take Carson’s handkerchief and dab at my suit front, offering the Irishman a reassuring smile. “It’s quite all right,” I promise. “No real harm done, after all. Are you hurt, Sybbie?”

The little girl shakes her head, then adds, “Sorry. Didn’t mean it,” and goes back to looking as if she might cry.

“I didn’t think you had. Really, accidents happen, and this is far from the worst thing to happen to me this month.” That, at least, is the simple truth. Compared to the loss of Adams, a bit of champagne in the face is a triviality. “So don’t worry about it, hm? Give us a smile.” I smile myself, trying to encourage her to follow my example. It earns me a shy little ghost of a smile.

“Thank you for your understanding, your Lordship,” her father gives me his own wry grin, then looks at her. “Come on, Sybbie. I think we should go to the nursery for a bit, so you can play a bit more freely.”

“I want to see Aunt Edith throw the flowers!” she protests.

“That’s not for a long time yet. We can come back for that part.” Father and daughter make their way off through the throng, leaving me shaking my head. As exciting as such a party is for the adults, it must be dreadfully dull for an energetic little girl.

“Here, we’ll fetch Molsley to help you get changed.” Lord Grantham finally comes unfrozen, turns, and gestures to Carson who looks ready to immediately set out in search of the footman, wherever he might be in the surrounding throng. I stop him.

“There’s no need for that, Lord Grantham,” I say, trying to sound more confident in my dressing abilities than I am. In reality I’ve had so much trouble managing traveling clothes, the idea of formal wear is daunting indeed. Still, I hate to make a fuss, especially when it will leave the party short handed. “Your footmen are busy, and I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.” It’s then that I start patting the wine off of my tie and realize that’s been stained. It will have to be replaced. 

From the expression on Lord Grantham’s face, either my confidence has visibly slipped, or he remembers my tie from earlier in the day. Still, rather than make a scene, he glances at Carson, who is still hovering, then back at me. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain,” I smile, but then I look at my tie and my bravado falters. “Hm, well, mostly certain at any rate. Perhaps I could borrow someone else’s valet, just for the tie.”

"I could help," a calm, pleasant voice from behind me interrupts the conversation. 

Carson looks sharply over my shoulder, apparently shocked, or perhaps affronted. Lord Grantham simply looks surprised, as if someone has said 'yes' to an unpleasant task when he expected a 'no'. 

Curious, armed with only their reactions, I turn to see the speaker.

I have long been aware that I fall in love too easily, but the first sight is so striking that I can't help it.

He is beautiful.

He's a little bit taller than I, although not too broad, and I think younger, although it's difficult to place his age exactly. He is all contrast. It's as if someone took the English winter of my youth and fashioned a man from it. His skin stands out pale against the crisp black of his suit and hair, like a glimpse of snow against the trees. It's his eyes that hold my attention the most, though, even paler than his complexion and silver as the sky on a frosty morning.

Despite the gaiety around him, he stands primly at attention. His expression is mild and polite in the face of Mr. Carson's astonishment. It's impossible to read anything in that face, even the desire to be useful.

He is everything that is English, everything that makes me want to flee back to the fairy tale of Tangiers, yet all I can think is that, yes, I want him as my valet while I am here.

I want to talk to him, to know him.

I want to thaw those icy eyes, to see if there is a spring waiting behind that winter.

"Mr. Barrow, you are here as a guest," Carson's protest breaks the moment. It's impossible to tell if he is appalled by the idea of a guest acting as a servant or the idea of this man in particular leaving his assigned role for the night, but his objection is quite strenuous. "Besides, you are a butler now."

"Mr. Molsley's a teacher, but he's acting as a footman," Mr. Barrow replies, his voice still level, pleasant, and imminently reasonable. "And, if what I hear is right, a valet. It's no disgrace for a butler to act as valet, especially not these days, and I have the training. Why shouldn't I help this gentleman?" His eyes flicker toward me, meeting my own for half a heart beat before darting away and fixing themselves quite deliberately on Carson. 

If anything, the butler looks less pleased than ever.

Lord Grantham seems oblivious to his butler's agitation, or perhaps he's simply ignoring it. I can't tell. Either way, he smiles and, with a very satisfied air, proclaims, "Well, that's certainly a kind offer. Thank you, Barrow." 

"Always glad to be of service, milord," Mr. Barrow replies with a sharp, neat bow, a private smile, and another glance in my direction that makes me painfully aware of how warm the room is.

"I assume you don't mind, Lord Hexham?" Lord Grantham asks the question as an afterthought, apparently just now remembering that I have a stake in this decision. "Barrow was a member of this house for fifteen years and has served as my personal valet. I can promise he's up to the task. Of course, since you're familiar with Molsley, I understand if you'd rather stay with him and Barrow can help serve." 

"Oh, that's quite alright, Lord Grantham," I reply, probably too quickly. There is a small shift to Mr. Barrow’s expression at the mention of serving that I can’t quite decipher, but I choose to read it as disappointment. It’s certainly nice to think he’d prefer dressing me to serving wine. "With this many people, Mr. Molsley could be lost for hours, while Mr. Barrow is here and willing. We'll see if he thinks he's up to the job after he sees my trunks," I joke, disguising my smile as simple good humor. "I'm afraid I'm as good at packing as I am at ties."

"Then it's settled," Lord Grantham nods firmly, still smiling, and taking another sip from his own glass of champagne. The motion seems to remind Carson that he's neglecting his duties and with a small start he steps back to the table and begins refilling glasses with as much haste as dignity can manage.

As casually as I can, praying that my heart won't beat loudly enough to alert the entire room, I turn to face my new valet. I find I can’t trust my voice without a sip of champagne first (fortunately there is still a small amount in my glass), so he beats me to the first word.

"Shall I meet you at your room then, your Lordship?" he asks, all cool politeness, although his eyes are now locked on my face. I try not to read too much into it, to not see things that might not be there, but it's difficult.

"Yes, please," I smile and nod my head, squelching the urge to bow. He is the one who should be bowing to me, and yet he exudes such an air of confidence I can't help the impulse. "I'm in the..." I stop and frown, trying to remember what name my particular room was given. I don't draw a blank so much as I draw a series of them. "Actually, I don't know which room I'm in, come to think of it. I'm certain I was told, but everything was so hurried this afternoon, I've forgotten."

Mr. Barrow doesn't seem the least bit put off by this. "I can find out from the housekeeper," he assures me. "We’ll get you fixed up and back to enjoying yourself in no time." With a smile and a very professional bow he's gone, slipping back into the swirling crowd, leaving me stranded and searching for glimpses of him.


	2. Resonence

It turns out that I was so late and the day so busy that most of my belongings have not found their way up from the luggage room. By the time Mr. Barrow arrives with my new suit, I have divested myself of my soiled clothing and am wrapped comfortably in my dressing gown. Fortunately, my under drawers were spared. 

“Apparently your butler had the good sense to send a set of white tie along with everything else,” Mr. Barrow informs me as he steps into the room, bearing the clothes in question. He is no less attractive on the second meeting. “So there’s no need to borrow anything or make due with day clothes.” Despite the assurance that I’d be properly attired, he still looked a touch concerned. "I can't be certain, of course, but it seems there might be a few items missing from your luggage. We've found two or three odd socks and one half set of cuff links. There are still a couple of smaller cases we need to go through, though, so they might yet show up. I simply thought you ought to know, just in case." 

While he relates this information with the caution one might expect from a servant telling his better that valuables have gone missing, something for which he might be blamed, I can only sigh and roll my eyes. "They're probably all on a train somewhere between here and Seville, and probably all on different trains, if you get down to it."

His polite mask doesn't break, but it does fold somewhat, shifting from general politeness to polite bewilderment. "I don't mean to be impertinent, your Lordship, but may I ask what happened?"

"Which time?" The memory of my numerous luggage mishaps, along with nearly missed trains, the bother of trying to figure out how to book my own passage from one region to another, and the continual trying – and failing – to find a convenient barber is exhausting in itself, so much so that I'm tempted to have a bit of a lie down. "At one point I picked up a case only to discover that it wasn't closed quite properly. Another time I opened one in haste, only to discover I had it upside down."

It may be odd to feel a sense of accomplishment at making his expression shift even further from it's previous mask of manners, but it is somehow satisfying to watch it reach "completely confounded". "And you couldn't find a steward to help you put everything right?"

"It depends on the time," I shrug. "Honestly, those were only two of several mishaps and since I did not always secure the best compartments, assuming I could secure a compartment at all and not a seat, well. I'm fairly certain there were times when the stewards didn't even realize I was there." I stand, stretching, still enjoying his expression, which I find adorable, and finish my tale with the gamest smile I can manage. "In the end, I'm really just lucky to have made it here on time with no valet to do things for me. It was definitely a learning experience."

"Quite, milord," he agrees, finally blinking and shaking himself loose of his shock. “Well, at least we have enough to make due.”

I watch him lay out the clothes with a rueful grin, particularly for the tie. Fabric serpents, I swear. “I warn you, the tie is entirely yours to manage."

"I suspect it won't give me much difficulty, your Lordship," he replies. This time there is a slight twist to his smile and a teasing undercurrent to his voice that could easily be missed if you weren't listening intently to the pleasing roll of his Manchester accent. "Shall we get you dressed, then?"

I want to say that, no, we should really do quite the opposite, but I squelch the urge with the ease of long practice. It does not do to be forward, particularly when I have no idea if his tastes even lie in my direction. He's probably a perfect lady's man, much as I could wish otherwise, and while I could always use my rank to threaten him into silence, I despise the notion of such a thing. So instead I fall back on my breeding and manners, crossing to the mirror and untying the sash of my robe. "Yes, we shall. After all, I was almost late for the wedding. Heaven forbid I be late to dinner as well."

His expression in the glass, unguarded under the illusion that I am not actually watching, flickers with genuine amusement as he picks up my trousers. I shed my robe and stand before the mirror in nothing but my underwear. With my clothes gone, the amount of time I've spent on the beach in Tangiers is suddenly obvious. You can see, clearly and abruptly, where my rolled sleeves have ended, and the collar of my shirt. Adams always fussed about the amount of time I spent in the sun, but I reveled in it. Now, however, the fact that I look like an oddly bicoloured dog makes me suddenly uneasy.

The self consciousness is not helped by the fact that I am not overly handsome and I know it. I have only to look in the mirror in front of me to confirm the fact. True, the glass is not in danger of cracking from my reflection, but I managed to inherit the least flattering combination of parts from my parents. I have the Pelham ears and I suspect, once my hair joins Bertie's in it's backward march, the forehead as well. Combined with the Prescott chin and I have too much on all sides. My hair, at least, is tolerable, but for it's current length, and I can't complain about my eyes, but overall, I am all too aware of my short comings, particularly when I look past my own reflection to that of the man helping me.

Have I really been hoping he would be interested in me? The whole thought suddenly seems absurd.

"I wasn't certain which cuff links you would prefer, your Lordship," Mr. Barrow informs me by way of pleasant conversation as he hands me my trousers, "So I brought up all I could find."

"Thank you, that was very thoughtful." I give him a smile as I dress, pulling my trousers and shirt on myself. He helps me with the waistcoat, then turns his attention to my tie. I am very grateful that bow ties are not standard day wear as I'm quite certain I could never manage one on my own. While his eyes stay on me through the entire process, they remain singularly disinterested.

"Are you here by yourself then, your Lordship?" he asks as he finishes, straightening the tie. "Or is Lady Hexham here as well?"

I suppose it's not a surprise that with my title and at my age he assumes I'm married, but I can't help the feeling of irony as I reply, "There is no Lady Hexham, at least not yet. My cousin will eventually hold the title, once we reach the point where we can put the rest of the family off no longer." It is a bold statement, particularly when made to a stranger and a servant, but I do want it to be absolutely clear to him that, for now at least, I am available, and that if I had my way this wouldn't change.

He looks mildly surprised, although whether by my words or my tone it's hard to say. "I'm sorry if I've been impertinent, your Lordship. I hadn't meant to bring up anything unpleasant."

"Don't concern yourself," I wave off his apology as he helps me into my jacket. "It's not unpleasant, exactly, just a bit tiresome. Adella is a lovely woman, we just aren't very taken with each other. Not like that. But in the end, there's not much to be done about it, not unless the fellow she fancies wakes up and notices."

"The family will forgive her not being a Marchioness if she's a Duchess?" he guesses.

I could wish she would fall for a Duke. Unfortunately, even that is too simple for the reality of my life. "Actually the man in question is a Viscount, so no, even if he did propose they wouldn't be happy. However, since we are not formally engaged, it would give me an opportunity to give her away without insult." I look over his handiwork. The hair needs retouching, but beyond that I look the part. "If I must marry – and I must – I would like to marry a woman who would gain something from the union."

"Plenty of women like that out there," he mutters quietly to himself. Our eyes meet in the mirror and he seems to realize that I overheard. His expression stiffens. "I'm sorry, your Lordship. That really was impertinent."

"And true," I shrug. If a bird looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, I do not see the need to call it anything else. "I'm more aware of that than anyone. But I'm not thinking to settle for a gold digger either." I turn and smile at him, willing my heart not to clench as our eyes meet. "I am looking for something rare and precious enough that I'm not likely to find it until I'm ninety."

"A lonely bachelor's life for you, then?" he asks, not unkindly, but with a decided air of something underlying the words. I want it to be teasing, or perhaps hope.

"A bachelor's life, certainly," I agree, searching his face for any hint of what I want to see. He is unfortunately much better at hiding his thoughts than I am at flirting and dropping hints. I take a step forward, narrowing the distance between us. It's a risk, a move that will raise uneasy questions if I'm wrong, but not a fatal misstep. "Although I hope it's not too lonely."

His gaze immediately sharpens and our eyes lock. His weight shifts and his back stiffens, an almost imperceptible betrayal of nerves, but he doesn't move away. "Who would keep you company, if not your wife?" he asks, keeping his voice low and soft. Even if someone were standing with their ear to the door, they would not be able to make out the question.

I take these as good signs and step forward again, close enough that we're nearly touching. He still doesn't move. "Oh, anyone I suppose," I reply, my voice just as low. I reach up and brush a non-existent errant strand of his hair back into place. I move slowly, giving him plenty of time to see what I'm doing and avoid it if he wants to. Apparently he doesn't, because my hand is not only allowed to ghost along the side of his head, but to continue on and settle at the base of his neck. "And what of you, Mr. Barrow? Is there a young lady you have your eye on?"

"Courting young ladies is for other men," he replies, his voice still soft, but now purring. His hands find my waist, slipping under my jacket and around to my back. "I've always had to be more opportunistic." He selects the last word carefully, as if pairing a fine wine with a meal, and then he closes the last of the distance between us, brushing his lips against mine.

Far be it for me to protest the gesture.

I part my lips, letting him explore my mouth as I bring my free hand up and around to caress along his shoulders, pulling us close. His hands drop and work their way under not only my jacket, but my waistcoat as well, rumpling the fabric something fierce I'm sure. There's surprising strength in the kneading flex of his fingers, and I can feel the edge of the glove he wears on his left hand through the fabric. I've not thought to ask about the glove, but it does make me curious. I'll have to ask about it later, possibly when determining whether or not it should be removed. With the rest of his clothes there's no question. We're both far too dressed for the moment and while I'm still well aware that dinner will be on the table and waiting soon, I am not willing to hurry. 

Perhaps I can go eat and leave him here as a particularly decedent dessert.

I'm about to pull out of the kiss, just far enough to suggest just that, when there's a loud clattering noise from the hallway. Suddenly my arms are empty. There's a moment of confusion before I realize that Mr. Barrow is now a good several feet off, pale eyes locked on the door like a hunted rabbit. My attention stays on him, but I'm listening. Beyond the door there's the indistinct sound of voices and things being picked up. Possibly a pair of valets, running very late or realizing they've selected the wrong cufflinks, have collided, or a guest who has partaken a bit too heavily of the champagne knocked something over. Whatever it is, the voices eventually fade and all is quiet once again.

Mr. Barrow's eyes slide back to me and he offers an apologetic smile. "The doors don't lock," he explains.

"No, of course not," I reply, offering him a smile in return. There are no hard feelings, only disappointment and dismay at the reminder of how cautious we must be. Of course, I've had locks installed on my rooms in Brancaster, but that is far from usual and I'm aware of it. "It's alright."

For a moment he's silent, regarding me with a thoughtful, almost wistful expression. "You know, your Lordship," he finally offers, slowly, "After the midnight toast, people will likely be a bit out of sorts. Less attentive, if you will, and I would imagine very ready for a good, sound sleep. It would be no great hardship, once the others have gone off to their beds, for me to make my way back here, if you wished it."

The hopeful tone in his voice can't fail to make me smile. "That sounds wonderful. A proper way to start the new year."

His smile broadens and, as he laughs a little, it reaches his eyes for the first time. They shine, like the sun hitting the snow, and I try to fix the picture in my mind. This is how I want to remember him, always, smiling from the heart, the mask he wears fallen away. "Right then, it's a plan." He sighs a little and straightens, a valet once more, but still smiling. "We should probably fix your hair up a bit before sending you down to dinner."

* * *

The sunlight wakes me, but I don't open my eyes. As long as they are closed, I can pretend that I am not alone in the bed. I can pretend that Mr. Barrow has not undoubtedly left Downton, headed back to wherever it is he works now and that the sunlight is not Mr. Molesly bringing me my tea. I ignore the soft sounds of someone moving about the room, the gentle click of the tea pot returning to the tray, everything, right up until the gentle brush of fingers against my cheek. 

"Lord Hexham?" the voice from beyond my eyelids is soft, fond, and by now quite familiar. "It's time to wake up."

Disbelieving, I open my eyes and look upward. There is Thomas Barrow, back in the reserved, formal guise of a servant, looking down at me with the ghost of a smile. "Thomas?" I ask, slowly levering myself into a sitting position. I should probably revert to using his surname, but I'm too startled and sleepy to think of it. "I thought you'd have headed home by now."

"I might have done," he shrugs, standing and picking up the tea tray to set across my lap. "But I didn't want to leave you to start your day with Molesley."

"Nothing against Mr. Molesley, but I am glad," I smile at him, his attentiveness making me feel oddly shy. It was one night, nothing more. After this we'll likely never see each other again and I shouldn't read too much into that, no matter how much I want to. 

"Would you like sugar and cream with your tea?" he offers, raising the cream pitcher. The lighthearted air doesn't diminish, much to my delight. There is, after all, a certain absurdity to us reverting to our formal roles after last night. 

"Sugar, please, no cream," I reply, watching his hands as he trades the pitcher for a sugar spoon. "Lots of sugar."

"Just tell me when," he offers, neatly spooning sugar into the steaming cup. By the time I tell him to stop, the tea is more syrup than anything, but he doesn't question. He simply hands me my tea and watches me take the first sip with an almost playful air.

Tea is one of the few things I really miss when I'm in Tangiers. Of course, they have tea there, and some of the finest. There's a mint tea in particular that I could drink daily and never tire of. But there's something different about English tea. Possibly it's the way it's prepared or simply that our cooler climate makes the experience different. I couldn't begin to say. What I can say is that the first sip in the morning is luxuriously bracing and having Thomas here, watching, makes it feel almost sinful. "Delightful," I sigh, relaxing back into the pillows and watching him through half closed eyes.

"I'm glad it pleases, Your Lordship," he replied dutifully, the amusement still dancing in his eyes. He is silent, but I get the decided feeling that he's laughing at me for some reason.

Of course, I am not a cat, so curiosity is not something I fear. "What is it?" 

The quiet amusement becomes a cheeky grin and he replies simply, "Your hair is a mess."

I do not doubt the statement in the least. Between the length and the amount of pomade that's been applied to it alone, it was inevitable. Of course, there's another factor, one that is sitting in front of me. My eyes fall to Thomas's hands and I smile softly at the memory of those hands running along my scalp, cradling my head as we kissed, and tousling curls that really didn't need the excuse to be messy. "Well," I tease back, "We both know whose fault that is."

His smile turns almost shy and he drops his eyes, colouring lightly along his ears and neck. Bashful isn't a look I've seen him wear until now and I find it utterly charming. "Sorry about that, milord.," he mutters, although he doesn't sound as sorry as he might.

"Well, you're the one who has to put it right, so I suppose that's fitting."

The smile flickers and fades, like a candle that's burnt too brightly. "Actually, milord, I shouldn't stay much longer. Serving tea is one thing, but staying long enough to help you dress would be pushing the envelope, unless you wish to dress right now. It's eight, breakfast isn't until half-past nine."

"If it meant I could do more than simply dress and bid you farewell from a standing position, I would." The last thing I want is for him to think that I simply don't care or am not tempted. If there were time, time and safety in a waking house, for us to steal more intimate moments, I would throw off the covers right here and now. Add the danger of running into cousin Mirada, who knows full and well that I'm not normally an early riser, particularly in colder climates and is certain to comment, and I feel I should remain, however reluctantly, in bed.

"It's alright, milord," he promises, even though there is no missing the regret in his voice. "I wouldn't expect you to say anything else."

"So this is goodbye then?"

"It should be." He glances at his watch and sighs. "It really should be."

As much as I want him to stay, I don't want him to get into trouble with his employer. Still, I can't simply let him go, just like that. "In which case, could I perhaps trouble you for a parting kiss?"

Although his eyes dart to the door, the gentle turn at the corners of his mouth tells me the answer before he forms the words. "I don't think that would take too long."

I set my tray to the side, careful not to spill the tea, and shift to allow him room to sit next to me on the bed. He places a hand on either side of me, bracing himself, allowing him to lean in without toppling over on the soft mattress, but not stopping me from wrapping my arms around him. The kiss is slow and lingering and it is with obvious reluctance on both of our parts that it ends."Thank you." I release him with a sigh. "It's been an absolute pleasure making your acquaintance, Thomas."

He smiles at the use of his name and stands. "The pleasure is all mine, Peter." He bows, then turns and slips from the room in that near silent manner that only a well trained servant can manage, leaving me alone.

Apologies to Juliet, but the parting is not sweeter for knowing I will undoubtedly never see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious what Peter actually looks like, there's a portrait of him in my Tea Tins collection. He's not quite as tan as he would be at this point, and for some reason comes out a rather vibrant orange on some monitors, but it's enough to give you the idea.


	3. Rookery

The canvas mocks me. No matter which paints I select or brush strokes I use, the landscape in front of me remains dead and lifeless as the world beyond my window. If only it would snow or the clouds would break and let the sun catch on the frosted ground, but anything that could bring a sense of life to the world remains stubbornly absent. I glare at my painting and try to imagine just a hint of sun, not brightly illuminating, but giving a sense of hidden warmth to the winter landscape. 

I fail. I've been failing for days. Fortunately in the cold and damp of the Northumberland winter the paints do not dry quickly, so I have time to fail.

"Excuse me, Your Lordship," my butler's voice pulls me away from the canvas and my frustration. "But Mr. and Mrs. Pelham are due to arrive in three quarters of an hour. You had wanted to change before then."

"Yes, thank you Fellowes." I flash him a smile and set about cleaning my brushes, my heart much lighter for the distraction. It has been quite strange to be home and not have Bertie around. Of course, I'm certain he and Edith have had a wonderful time in France, and I’m quite looking forward to hearing about it. I’m also certain he's not missed listening to me whinging about the political nonsense that landed in my lap the second I walked through the door, as it always does when I come home from Tangiers. Or the hassle of trying to find a new valet. There have been applicants, of course, even in this brief an amount of time, but no one I feel comfortable trusting with my deepest secrets. Adams would have cut off his own arm before he would have said anything to damage my reputation, even if the entire world already knows, and I think Fellowes would cut off his own head. That kind of loyalty can not be bought, I don't care what anyone says, and it is something I desperately need. Therefore I suspect poor Fellowes will be dressing me for the better part of a year before I find someone suitable.

Once I am done with my brushes, I pull off my smock, setting it aside for the maids to clean. I have three smocks, all told, and how the maids manage to keep them looking pristine when I am forever dragging the sleeves through my palate and other such clumsy errors is a mystery to last the ages. I am, however, very grateful for it. Leaving my painting endeavors behind, I head for my room where Fellowes is, by now, waiting for me. I've let him choose the clothes for the arrival, as he may be a butler, but he is a butler with very good taste. Dinner will, of course, be white tie. Nothing less will do for dear Edith's first meal here.

"Is everything ready for the arrival?" I ask as I walk through the door to my room, already loosening my tie. Despite Fellowes trying to teach me proper tying techniques the other day, taking the cursed things off is still all I'm good for. 

"Yes, Your Lordship," he replies, looking up from where he's readying my jacket. "The rooms are all prepared and I have maids standing by to make last minute adjustments, should they be required. Lady Grantham has been working with Mrs. Kitchener to make certain the nursery is up to snuff."

Here, I confess, I envy the Granthams. Carson has, from what I’ve gathered, been around since before Lord and Lady Grantham were wed, let alone had any children. While I am quite fond of Fellowes, he wasn't hired until I was nearly off to school, which not only means we lack the sort of intimate relationship some of my peers have with their butlers, but it puts us at a disadvantage where Miss Marigold is concerned. We barely had any nursery in place at all when Lady Grantham arrived last week. "And has she approved our efforts?"

“Of course, milord,” Fellows promises. “Don’t worry. Mr. Pelham is a good man and I know you're fond of him, and of his new wife and her ward. We will make certain that their reception is our best showing."

I can't help but laugh at his assurance, not out of mockery, but appreciation. "You do know me. I'm certain it will be a reception worthy of the king, if only because you wish it. Between you and Mrs. Kitchener, anything should be possible, including fetching the moon, if need be."

"It would be a trick, milord, but we would certainly try," he assures me as I change into a fresh shirt. 

"I wouldn't ask it of you for just that reason." He has laid out a nice tweed, one that I've only worn on a couple of occasions, and a silk tie that Bertie got me for my thirty seventh birthday. I won’t be standing in the cold for long, so it should keep me plenty warm enough. "Although if Mrs. Kitchener could work up something special in the way of flowers, or greenery, or something of the sort for dinner, that would be appreciated."

"I believe that's already been taken care of, milord."

"Of course it has, sorry," I have to laugh at my own nerves. "Apparently I’m still anxious to make a good first impression on Edith, and I've already done that!"

"Simply more proof of how much you care," Fellows assures me as I slip into the new trousers. Once they're firmly on, he comes around and straightens the creases. He then helps me into the waistcoat.

"I suppose." I look at myself in the mirror as he gets me put together one piece at a time. My tan continues to defy the English winter which, so long as I'm dressed, pleases me. I can do so little to defy my country and it's rules that I enjoy the small rebellion of looking like I've been sunbathing year round. "Have we had any more inquiries about the valet position?"

"I've an interview set for this afternoon. He should be arriving shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Pelham." Fellowes finishes getting the waistcoat settled and reaches for the tie. "I'd have set it for later, or a different day, but he's not local."

"Promising," I mutter, watching carefully as he ties a neat knot in the slippery length of fabric. So far all of the applicants have been from near by houses. Cumberland is the farthest anyone's traveled to get here, and so I've not quite been willing to trust that they've not already been exposed to gossip. While any man who dresses me will have to know, eventually, about my romantic tastes, the ones who know about it before hand make me nervous. They could be applying because they don't care, or they could be planning to abuse the knowledge. It would take very good references, preferably from someone I know quite well, for me to hire such a person.

Despite my attentiveness, I am certain I could not duplicate Fellowes's efforts with the tie.

"I hope so, my lord," Fellowes allows, picking up the jacket. "It would be nice to have the affair all settled, but I'm not holding my breath. After all, it took us months to find Adams. I would expect replacing him to take just as long." Perhaps hearing him echo my earlier thoughts should be reassuring, but really, it just leaves me feeling guilty. He does enough without the added duties.

"Well, it will be filled when it's filled I suppose." The conversation dies as he brushes the lint from my jacket. Once he's finished I check myself over in the mirror as much for form as anything, then walk to the window and look once more out into the cold. I can't see the drive from my room, so I have no idea if the car bearing my family, old and new, is driving down it or not. I can only see the frost and the general gloom and feel a bit of my earlier dissatisfaction come stealing in around the edges. 

I check my watch. If Bertie and Edith are running on time, they should be arriving in ten minutes. If they are early, they might already be here, but as no one has come running to fetch me, I can assume that is not the case. "I presume one of the footmen is keeping a look out for the car?" 

"I actually have the outdoor staff keeping an eye out, milord, since they’re out and about anyway, and Albert is at the door, in case they should arrive before us"

While part of me is disappointed that Edith will not be met by the staff as if she were a duchess rather than simply “the agent’s wife,” I can’t help but imagine everyone else is very glad to remain indoors. “Very good.” With a nod, I turn to the door. 

As I walk through my ancestral home, I try to imagine it full of people. Not the society friends and business acquaintances one invites for shooting parties and such, but family. I imagine children, not just Marigold and Lady Mary's children up for a visit, but as many as Bertie and Edith can manage. I can not believe they will be content with any less than two, at least. I imagine laughter. I imagine someone begging Fellowes for a piggy back ride and someone else trying to sweet talk the footmen into treats. 

I imagine life in the English winter. What a grand dream.

The first step of that dream meets me as I reach the hall, held in Lady Grantham’s arms, her head resting on one elegantly clad shoulder. I smile at the sight and greet them both simultaneously. “Good afternoon, ladies.” 

“Good afternoon,” Lady Grantham returns, all genteel smiles. Marigold simply blinks at me for a moment, then buries her face against Lady Grantham’s neck. The Countess apologizes. “She’s just woken up from her nap.”

“I can hardly fault her, and going out in the cold probably doesn’t seem like the best proposition right now.” Despite her shyness, I continue smiling at the little girl, trying to coax a bit of energy from her. “I bet she’ll be happy to see Edith again, though.”

“I’m sure she will be,” Lady Grantham agrees. “I know I will.” She sighs, then gives me an imploring look. “I know they’ll be happy, but promise you’ll look after them for me.”

If there is one thing I have learned about my lovely guest in this past week, it’s that she is a true mother. I believe she would do anything for her children, and while she has tried to hide her anxiety at living apart from one of them, she’s not done a very good job. “I promise.” It’s an easy vow to make. “And if, Heaven forbid, anything does go wrong, you will be the first to know.”

“Thank you. It is a relief to know they’ll be well taken care of.”

The four of us, Lady Grantham, Marigold and I, with Fellows following a respectable distance behind, make our way to the entrance hall. Fellows joins Albert at the door. Lady Grantham takes a seat on one of the sofas, settling Marigold in her lap. After a moment’s hesitation, I claim one of the chairs. I don’t want to sit, really, but if I don’t I may start pacing. I have never enjoyed waiting much. The anticipation puts me on edge. “It’s been pleasant having you here, this week,” I say entirely by way of making conversation and keeping myself from fidgeting. “Are you certain you can only stay two days more?”

“Quite certain. I don’t dare leave Robert alone any longer than necessary.” She gives me a knowing smile and confesses, “He doesn’t like to admit it, but he hates being at home when I’m not there. Besides, I’ve work to do with the hospital. I doubt anything urgent has happened while I’ve been gone, but being president is a big responsibility.” 

“Very. I can’t imagine my own mother would have done such a thing.” Of course, I can’t imagine Mama doing anything other than needlework, reading, and ordering the staff to rearrange the furniture. She was always quite fond of redoing rooms, for some reason. 

“If you’d have told me before the war that I’d be doing it, and enjoying it, I’d not have believed you. But I do! It’s so much more rewarding than simply planning garden parties and charity events and visiting one’s dressmaker.” There’s a sense of deep satisfaction to her voice as she adds, “It’s a brave new world we’re living in.”

“It is.” I catch myself drumming my fingers against the velvet of the chair and force myself to stop. I frown a little, looking down at where my hand rests against the pile, my thoughts wandering momentarily. I remember the first time, in London, one of my old school friends took me to one of those underground clubs that one always hears rumors of. I remember for the first time being free to smile and flirt without having to wonder or worry. If only the world were a little braver.

“A penny for your thoughts, Lord Hexham?”

I look up, startled, to find my lovely guest giving me a concerned smile. I laugh a little at my distraction and shake my head. “I’m sorry. Just thinking of how things are changing is all. How much has changed already. What the future might bring.” My eyes fall on little Marigold who looks as if she’s about fallen back asleep. “I’ve gotten used to living alone,” I offer as an explanation for my distance. “It will be good, I think, to have people around again. Besides the staff, I mean. I’ll have to throw more parties, when I’m at home.”

“Perhaps you’ll decide to be home more?” she suggests, her tone hopeful.

I am saved from replying by a knock on the door. Fellows opens it and one of the gardeners sticks his head in. “Car’s just behind me, milord.”

I spring from my seat. Admittedly, I probably could have stood with far less enthusiasm and more decorum, but between wanting to see Bertie and Edith and wanting to avoid that last question, I can’t be bothered to care. I start to offer my hand to Lady Grantham, then pause, frowning a little as I realize that helping a lady up from her seat is a slightly different proposition than usual when the lady in question is holding a child. “Do you need me to take her?”

With a reluctant sigh, Lady Grantham nods. “If you could, please.” 

“Come here, little princess.” It takes some coaxing, but Marigold eventually consents to transfer to my arms. The movement seems to wake her slightly, which is probably a good thing since we’re about to step outside. She’s been sensibly dressed in a coat, of course, but the cold will probably still be at least a little bit jarring. Lady Grantham stands, smoothing down the front of her coat, then turns to the door. “Alright, Fellows,” I smile, bracing myself for the inevitable chill, “Let’s say hello to the happy couple.”

The door opens and we step out into the brisk air just in time to watch the car pull around the corner and into the courtyard. I can’t see Bertie and Edith in the back seat until the car draws directly across from us, but I wave anyway, assuming they can see me. “Look, Marigold. There’s Mummy. Wave to her!” I was uncertain, at first, how to refer to Edith in relation to Marigold. Bertie has told me the truth of the matter, of course, but at least on paper she’s only a ward. The justification that even if she truly were a ward, Edith would want to be seen as her mother seems sound and makes thing pleasingly simple. The problem with inventing fictions is that you have to keep them straight, after all.

At first, Marigold doesn’t want to do anything except huddle away from the cold, but she joins me in my waving after the car has stopped and Albert is opening the rear door. As soon as Edith steps out, wrapped in sensible-yet-elegant furs, she becomes more animated, stretching both arms out to her mother. Unwilling to make her wait, although part of that is admittedly fear that she’ll fall from my arms, I walk out to meet Edith half way. 

“Marigold, darling! I’ve missed you!”

It’s as touching a reunion as one could ask for, as the small girl is transfered from one set of arms to another, laughs as she’s spun in a circle and kissed. Bertie greets his new daughter by tousling her hair, beaming. I feel as if Lady Grantham and I might as well not be there, that we’re simply spectators, an intrusive audience on the family’s joy. We aren’t, of course, but it feels that way, so I suffer a pang of guilt as I offer my own greeting. “Welcome home, Bertie. Edith.” I hold out my hand to my cousin and he takes it, then embraces me.

“It’s good to be home,” he replies as he pulls back. He’s been smiling since he stepped from the car and doesn’t seem likely to stop soon. I’m glad. He deserves to smile more. “Not,” he adds, “That I didn’t enjoy France.”

“Welcome home, Edith dear.” Lady Grantham steps in to kiss her daughter on the cheek. “Was the weather good for traveling?”

“Very,” her daughter answers, although her attention is still somewhat taken up with the little girl in her arms. “It rained a little on the passage home, but otherwise it was clear. Cold, but clear. I was rather glad for the car.”

The observation seems to remind Bertie of something, and he turns to gesture back down the drive. “Speaking of which, were you expecting someone? We passed a man headed across the grounds, but I didn’t recognize him.”

“Possibly here to interview for the valet position.” I turn to look at Fellows, confirming the plausibility of the suspicion. “Although I think he would be early?”

Fellows checks his watch. “Early, but not by too much. Promising, if it is him.”

“Indeed, far better early than late.” Bertie nods with his usual practicality, then gives me a sideways grin. “Especially if he’s to keep Peter running on time.”

My offense is entirely feigned. “Now really, Bertie, it’s not that difficult to get me turned out of bed in the morning! Alright, so there was that one time, but the chimney in my room wanted seeing to and it was dreadfully cold, so I feel I can have a bit of leeway. Besides, that was years ago! Father was still alive.” At least that’s the only time I remember fighting to spend the entire day in bed. I lost the fight. Now I stave off the problem of cold mornings and fires that won’t draw by wintering in Tangiers. “Although speaking of being cold, it’s not getting any warmer as we stand here.” I step back and gesture to the door. “Let’s go in, shall we? Then you love birds will have to tell us all about the wonders you saw on your honeymoon.”

“Give us some time to unpack before you demand a full recount,” Bertie laughs as we start walking toward the warm interior of the house. “My notes on the Louvre are in one of my trunks. I’m certain you’ve seen it all. I don’t believe they’ve had any new acquisitions since the war, but I knew you’d want my opinion on everything.”

Edith leans over and confesses, _sotto voce_ , to her mother, “He made notes on the opera we saw as well. You’d have thought he was a student at lecture instead of a man enjoying a performance!”

She’s still smiling, but the thought that Bertie might really have overshadowed any part of his honeymoon for my sake is mortifying. “Not that I couldn’t cheerfully discuss the Louvre and it’s exhibitions for months on end, but please tell me that you’re joking.”

Bertie gives Edith a sideways grin before assuring me, “Well, exaggerating at least. I did keep a journal, but it was as much to preserve memories for myself as to share them with you.”

“I’m so relieved.”

“Well, notes or no notes, I want to hear about everything,” Lady Grantham informs them as she reaches the door. Bertie and I are hanging back, letting the ladies go first, as is only proper. A sphinx’s smile on her face, she turns back to us and adds, “Although I’m certain there will be one or two things you choose to keep…” she trails off, her eyes shifting from us to something behind us in the courtyard. Surprise crosses her face, confusion, and her next word has nothing to do with the newlyweds or France. “Barrow?”

The name is as unexpected and out of place as a maid in the dining room. I turn and look as much to confirm what I’ve heard as from any eagerness of seeing it’s owner again, although as soon as I see him standing there in the courtyard behind me, lit not by electric lights, but by the weak winter sun, my heart leaps and clenches at the same time. How many times can I fall in love with this man? He stands, frozen as a statue, his eyes locked on us all with the faint air of someone who’s been caught doing something he oughtn’t be doing, although I have no idea what that would be. “Your Ladyship,” he returns the greeting with a proper smile and an equally proper bow.

“What are you doing here?” Lady Grantham asks. I don’t dare anticipate the answer, but I find myself holding my breath, hoping that I know.

After a moment’s hesitation, he crosses to an easier conversing distance and replies, “I’m here for an interview, actually, Your Ladyship.” Now that it’s clear he has everyone’s attention and will not simply be slipping away unnoticed, he is the model servant. His smile curves just the right amount, his back is straight without being stiff, and his hands lay flat at his sides. He watches us with easy attentiveness. If he were applying for a position as footman, he’d be hired on the spot, but I know from one night’s pillow talk that won’t be why he’s here. “There’s a place open for a valet.” He quickly checks his watch and adds, “I’m a bit earlier than I’d anticipated.”

I wonder if those attentive eyes of his catch me struggling not to smile too broadly, to show my eagerness to tell him he’s hired, right here and now? I feel like it must be obvious to everyone, although at least he’s the only one looking directly at me.

“Aren’t you a butler now?” Edith asks, her tone confused. I glance at her and her expression matches her voice. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to take a step backward.”

Oddly, the observation raises my hopes. Why would he want to take a step backward in his career? Of course, if it is because he wishes to be with me, he can’t say it up front, but that simply means I can’t be disappointed, not at this stage. I try to reign in my flying fantasies, to remind myself that there are practical reasons a servant would want to uproot himself and come to Brancaster, but it’s difficult. I’d forgotten the exact shade of his eyes, the precise line of his jaw. Now that I remember, I never want to forget again.

“Well, not really,” Barrow replies, pausing just a moment before and after, as if choosing his words. “The house I’m currently serving is rather small. Serving as valet to a Marquess would be a step forward, rather than back. And I’ve discovered that there’s more to life than being the one in charge. I think I’d like to see a bit more of the world before I settle down completely.”

There’s a knowing turn to Lady Grantham’s smile. “Goodness, could it be that you’re bored?”

For a hair’s breadth he looks like he’s been caught again, but his words hold a socially acceptable humility. “Bored might be going a bit far, Your Ladyship. But it is a quiet house with fewer people than I’m used to, and it’s harder to get away than I’d like. I wanted to stay in Yorkshire so I could still see everyone at Downton, now and again, but Lady Edith’s wedding was the first I could manage it, and even that took some string pulling. As Lord Hexham’s valet, though, I feel it likely that we’d visit, occasionally, or that Baxter and the Bateses would visit here. And in between time, Lady Edith and miss Marigold will be here now, won’t you?” The last he addresses to Marigold, smiling and wiggling his fingers at her in a familiar manner. She gives him a small smile, then giggles and buries her face against Edith’s collar.

Despite her daughter’s shy routine, Edith seems pleased by the idea. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind one familiar face around. And I’m sure Bertie would like someone else to give her piggy back rides when he’s working.”

“I’m certain I will never get tired of playing with her,” Bertie protested in his mildest manner.

Barrow opens his mouth as if to say something, seems to think better of it, and says something else instead. At least, I can think of no reason for the secret little smile as he says, “And when I visited Brancaster as His Lordship’s valet last year, I rather liked the house and feel the staff would be more what I’m used to.” 

That catches me by surprise. I’d not realized that he’d been here before. “Oh, then you’ll already know Fellows?” I turn and look askance at my butler.

“Actually, I was not here for that particular shooting party,” Fellows corrects my assumption. “Although I had heard about it afterward.”

There is something in his tone that makes me uncomfortable. I wish I could pull him aside and ask what, exactly, he’s heard. As my valet, Barrow would work less with the other staff than he would as, say, the butler, but one still doesn’t like to have a personal servant who’s not popular downstairs. Of course, given my choice between the man before me and my current staff, I would be hard pressed to say which I’d rather do without. 

Lady Grantham, on the other hand, is blithely unconcerned. "Well I'll certainly vouch for you." She turns to look at me and Fellowes. "Barrow here saved Edith’s life once, you know. He ran through a burning room to pull her out."

Needless to say that dispels whatever unpleasantness might be lurking in anyone’s mind. Oddly, rather than looking proud at the reminder of his bravery, Barrow looks rather stunned, as if he's not certain whether to be pleased or bolt from the scene. "Yes, well, anyone would have done the same, I'm sure," he demurs, his eyes flicking from one face to the next.

Surprisingly, it's Fellowes who disagrees with him. "A great many people wouldn't have."

Barrow drops his eyes to the ground, going decidedly pink about the ears. He looks so vulnerable standing there, so clearly uncomfortable with the attention that I can't help but feel protective. "Well, all of that aside, the freezing courtyard is not exactly the proper place for an interview, now is it?" I suggest, in as unaffected a manner as I can manage. I turn to my butler, "Fellowes, why don't you and Mr. Barrow head inside and lets conduct this a bit more properly? I'm certain the rest of us can manage."

"Very good, milord," Fellowes replies with his usual smart bow, then turns to Mr. Barrow. "If you will come with me."

Barrow's smile is once more confident and professional as he gives Fellowes a tight nod. Much as I wish he would turn those pale eyes on me, just for a moment, he follows my butler without so much as a tell tale glance in my direction.

Good man, really. One can never be too careful, something I struggle horridly to remember at times. Following his lead, I turn my attention back to Bertie, Edith, and little Marigold. "Come, the footmen will get your things. Let's get out of the cold." As we step inside I keep my eyes ahead of me, but my thoughts are with the tall, pale man in the coat and bowler.

Come to my home, Thomas Barrow. Let me learn the secrets behind your frozen eyes and show you the path to summer.


End file.
